


Between Meetings and Midnight

by PieceOfCait



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a kind of happy ending, Dom!taire, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Implied Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Miscommunication, Modern AU, Pining Grantaire, Pre-Relationship, Snowed In, Subdrop, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, enjoltaire - Freeform, sub!jolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20832989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait
Summary: There’s a specific patch of curls behind Enjolras’s left ear that, when pulled with just the right amount of force, never fails to make him keen. Grantaire can find that spot in the dark with his eyes closed. As for where Enjolras keeps his mugs, well.It’s not like he’s ever been invited to stay for drinks.





	Between Meetings and Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was started _thirty-four hecking weeks ago_ and would not have moved beyond a flu-med-induced handwritten ramble were it not for [Shitpostingfromthebarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade) \- my spectacular beta reader who literally dragged me kicking and screaming to the end of typing this. You are the light of my life.

It seems absurd, Grantaire thinks as he struggles to catch his breath, that this is the hardest part. Trying to gauge how long is _too long_ in The After.

His cheek scrapes against light stubble as he pulls back, slow as he dares. Enjolras is still shaking, eyes clenched shut and knuckles white where he grips the headboard. If Grantaire was made of stronger stuff he might resist the temptation for his gaze to roam while Enjolras isn’t watching. 

As is, he never stood a chance.

His breath catches in his chest as he takes in Enjolras’s furrowed brow. There’s a sheen of perspiration that makes him glow in the low light, mouth uncharacteristically slack as he pants, barely audible over Grantaire’s own thundering pulse. He wants desperately to kiss the man, but that isn’t how this works. A familiar pang shoots through his chest.

Enjolras’s thighs twitch where they sit either side of Grantaire’s hips, and he realises he’s overstayed his welcome.

He jolts, Enjolras biting back a gasp at the movement. Grantaire wants to apologise, even moreso when he pulls away completely and Enjolras fails to suppress the whine trapped in his chest, but they don’t - can’t - talk. Not here. Not in this precarious space they’ve carved out between meetings and midnight.

His own breathing is too loud, Grantaire thinks. But it’s a familiar thought in the muted soundtrack that preludes his exit. A shuffling of sheets, dull footsteps on the carpet, silence from the motionless blond. A snap of latex swiftly followed by the _thwump_ of a bin lid. (Grantaire pointedly ignores the telltale creak of new plastic - the bin hadn’t been there when they’d first started this- this _thing.)_

He pulls a wet wipe from the packet - also a new addition - and cleans himself before placing the pack as close to Enjolras as he dares. The man is still loosely gripping the headboard with his eyes shut, and Grantaire wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

The idea to clean Enjolras’s stomach for him is banished as quickly as it forms. There are precious few moments Grantaire is permitted to touch Enjolras, and he isn’t game to risk future opportunities by overstepping boundaries now, Egyptian cotton bed sheets be damned.

He pulls on his jeans and fishes his phone from the pocket. Without sparing a glance at the slew of notifications on the screen, he thumbs to the transit app that’ll tell him which bus stop to head for.

While the app calculates his options, he searches for his henley (hallway), his beanie (kitchen counter), and his jacket (just inside the front door where it had unceremoniously been shoved from his shoulders not two hours earlier). He can’t find one of his socks, but that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make if it means getting out of this apartment to where his lungs can resume normal function.

Unlocking his phone as he opens the door to leave, he frowns at the screen. Instead of bus times, it’s displaying an alert:

_‘INCLEMENT WEATHER WARNING: ALL SERVICES CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Updates expected at 04:30’_

He re-reads the message three times before he remembers to breathe again. With a panicked glance toward Enjolras’s bedroom, Grantaire quietly closes the door before moving to the small kitchen window. Snow has been falling for most of the day, sure, but to cancel the buses? That’s just-

His brain fizzles as he looks out into the almost pure-white scene. Snow is piled halfway up the doors of the parked cars, and for the first time he realises how utterly silent the street has been. For a delirious moment he considers walking home, but he quickly recognises that to be a literal death sentence. 

He glances numbly around the room. Enjolras is a man of small lodgings and few comforts, a couch not among them. He briefly debates curling up to sleep on the floor, but the idea of being found as an uninvited lodger in the morning swiftly quashes that plan.

Taking a steadying breath, then another and another, Grantaire scrubs a hand down his face and sets his shoulders, heading back to Enjolras’s bedroom.

A wave of warmth hits him as he opens the door, the accompanying scent of sex still strong in the air. Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s relieved or concerned that Enjolras has finally moved, now lying curled on his side facing the far wall. He shrinks in on himself as Grantaire freezes in the doorway.

“Enj...?” he tries. They both flinch at the sound, because this is wrong, wrong, wrong. Their entire script relies on a distinct lack of words, and here Grantaire is; ad-libbing. "There’s, um. The snow is- there’s no buses…I can’t get home.” Grantaire pauses to take a breath, carefully watching Enjolras for some sort of nonverbal response so he might not have to carry on down this path. 

No dice. 

“Do you think- I mean, could I..." He trails off, the little confidence he did have dissipating in the face of Enjolras's continued silence. "Nevermind, I can- I’ll walk-"

"Don't be ridiculous." Enjolras’s voice is rough, cracking twice on the last word. 

Grantaire hesitates. "Are you...sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," the man snaps. A sniffle follows, trailed by another and the sound of breath hitching. Before Grantaire can process what's happening Enjolras has leapt from the bed - comforter in tow - and swept into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Grantaire stands, shocked and praying for some sort of imminent bladder issue until he hears the undeniable sound of muffled sobbing. Before he can process it, he finds that his feet have taken him to the closed door.

He presses a palm to the wood, hesitant. There’s still time to walk away, curl up on the edge of Enjolras’s bed pretending he never heard a sound.

Somewhere behind the door Enjolras sniffs, and Grantaire knows he has to at least try.

“Enjolras?” His knock rings hollow on the door between them. “Are you ok?”

“I need a minute.” Enjolras’s voice is thick and makes something twist uncomfortably in Grantaire’s gut.

“I can leave,” he volunteers, desperate to fix this, blizzard be damned.

“No- no, it’s not-” another sob, “that’s not-”

An awful thought occurs to Grantaire, and he has to swallow twice before he can even begin to wrap his tongue around it. “Did I- Did I hurt you?” They’re certainly _rougher_ than Grantaire is used to, but he’d thought- Enjolras had never said- “Christ- if I hurt you-”

_“No,”_ Enjolras croaks, louder. “This is- this is just what _happens.”_

Grantaire’s gaze flits across the wooden door, begging for some hidden message in the grain to give him an ounce of clarity. 

There’s a soft thud from inside the room. “This _always_ happens.”

The sobbing picks up. Broken off gasps and choked noises seep out from under the door. Grantaire presses his forehead to the wood, confused, apprehensive, and totally lost as to what he should do.

“Can I come in?” he hears himself ask. There’s no response, though the crying becomes more muffled.

It’s not a ‘no,’ so after a deep breath Grantaire cracks the door. Enjolras is sitting against the far wall, burritoed in his blanket. The only visible part of him is a tuft of blond curls and the hands hiding his face.

It’s a small bathroom: Grantaire doesn’t have to reach far to grab some toilet paper, wordlessly offering it to Enjolras as he sits beside him, careful to keep several inches of space between them.

Enjolras blinks wet red eyes at him as he takes the paper, wiping at his nose and pulling his knees tighter to his chest. Grantaire is sure his own expression isn’t helping matters and tries to school his features into something other than sheer panic.

The silence drags as they wait for Enjolras’s breathing to steady. The blond tilts his head back to lean against the tiled wall, brow furrowed and eyes closed when he finally speaks. 

“I can’t talk to you.”

His voice is scratchy, breaking in places and lower than usual. If Grantaire focuses on the sound instead of the words, he might be able to ignore the gut-clenching pain they inflict. 

“Ok,” Grantaire whispers in soft response, and Christ, it sounds like he’s been physically kicked in the chest.

In his periphery he sees Enjolras wince.

Ah, that’s right. Rule number one of the whole no-talking thing is _not to fucking talk._

The tiles are hard and cold, but Enjolras makes no move to leave. Grantaire doesn’t do much more than blink, and even that seems to be making the blond uncomfortable.

An internal debate rages between the desire to remain silent and the overwhelming need for an excuse to escape. Eventually, the latter prevails. 

“Do you want a tea?”

-

There’s a specific patch of curls behind Enjolras’s left ear that, when pulled with just the right amount of force, never fails to make him keen. Grantaire can find that spot in the dark with his eyes closed. As for where Enjolras keeps his mugs, well. 

It’s not like he’s ever been invited to stay for drinks.

He slams the door of the third cupboard, feeling his head starting to spiral and desperately willing it to stop. 

“Above the fridge,” he hears, spinning to see the World’s Worst Kitchen Organiser looking impossibly small, still smothered in his comforter with a newly-acquired pair of pyjama pants peeking out from underneath.

“Of course.” It sounds bitter even to his own ears, but he can’t bring himself to apologise. 

He pulls two large mugs from their nonsensical storage space and almost chokes on his tongue when he turns to see Enjolras gingerly taking a seat at the bench.

Grantaire fumbles the mugs, all but dropping them on the countertop as his mind recalls the last time he’d seen the blond at the ghastly egg-white laminate, pinned down, mouth wet and chest heaving, a borderline blasphemous constellation of red and purple scattered across his chest.

At the moment Enjolras’s eyes are neither wide blown nor frantic as they had been then; instead, they narrow at the thankfully-unchipped cups.

Quickly moving to the small pantry in search of teabags, Grantaire’s skin prickles with the weight of the gaze on his back.

“By the oven.”

“Oh, we’re talking now, are we?”

“Don’t.” It’s quiet, and a quick glance shows that it was directed at the benchtop.

He doesn’t realise he’s staring until red-rimmed eyes flash up to meet his.

Grantaire mimes zipping his mouth shut with a defiant raise of his brows, and Enjolras’s face falls.

“I didn’t mean-“

“Uh uh uh, if I don’t get to talk neither do you.” The tension that’s been building in his shoulders begins clawing its way up his neck. “Or are you above that equality you’re always preaching?”

Even puffy-eyed, Enjolras’s glare could cut glass. “You really want to do this? Now?”

The heat from the blond’s glower races under his skin; Grantaire turns from it to fill the kettle. “It’s your apartment Boss. I’m just stuck in it.” 

The rebuttal he’s waiting for doesn’t come. He keeps his back to Enjolras as he lights the stove, taking extra time to fiddle with the knobs before finally turning with every intention of rolling his eyes at the stubbornly silent jackass.

Instead, he freezes mid-turn. Enjolras is curled over the bench, hand pressed firm against his mouth, shoulders shaking, fresh tears trailing down his face.

Guilt burns hot and sharp in Grantaire’s stomach. 

The duvet slips as a wet sob escapes. There’s a dark mark on the blond’s neck, just high enough to require a collared shirt to keep it covered. The remnant of Enjolras’s sweat turns sour on Grantaire’s tongue as he tries desperately to wrap it around something less bitter-bastard.

“Ignore me,” he blurts. “I’m being an ass.” Unconsciously he’s circled the bench, hesitating only a moment before tugging the duvet to re-cover Enjolras’s shoulders.

The blond’s head shoots up, face blotchy and wet. Grantaire crosses his arms over his chest to keep from doing anything stupid or impulsive, like letting his hands linger or smoothing down those ridiculous curls. 

“I know you don’t want to be here,” Enjolras’s voice is thick as he tightens his grip on the blanket. “I’m sorry.” 

“Not your fault.” Grantaire attempts a nonchalant shrug, but it’s clunky and stilted and he’s standing way too close. 

Enjolras wipes his face on the comforter, and Grantaire uses the break in eye-contact to flee to the stove. He turns the heat up, desperate for something to do with his hands. They’re sore, he realises, flexing them as he turns to lean back against the sink and noting the dull ache of overuse. 

The kitchen feels leagues too small as he remembers the cause of the discomfort. The cause of a lot of his discomforts, if he’s being honest with himself. He can’t stop his eyes flickering up to the cocooned blond staring mutely at Grantaire’s still-flexing fingers.

He knows that beneath the blanket he’d find maps of his fingerprints littered across Enjolras’s waist and thighs. It’s not a new revelation- he’d pondered over it once under the warm glow of the Musain lights - but here in the fluorescent kitchen, the realisation has sharper edges.

“Does this really happen every time?” Grantaire hears himself ask. Enjolras blinks as though waking from a daze. “The, um…the crying?”

Enjolras’s eyes drop as he offers a one-shouldered shrug.

A suffocating silence seeps through the room as Grantaire weighs his next question on his tongue, losing the fight to will it back down his throat. 

“With other people?” 

A muscle jumps in the blond’s jaw as the kettle starts to whistle. “Once or twice.” 

Grantaire could stop here, spare them both from what can only lead to the end of their arrangement. He could retreat to the hallway and wait silently for the snow to clear. Play along in pretending this never happened the next time Enjolras discretely nods to the Musain exit. Ignore the ache between his ribs as he navigates this apartment in the dark and forget the words lodged in his throat as he wraps rough fingers around slim wrists.

It’s the coward’s choice, sure. But he’s never claimed to be anything more. 

The kettle is screaming, but Grantaire hardly hears it. 

“And with me?” His voice is tight, bracing himself for the answer he already knows and doesn’t want.

The blond averts his eyes and swallows. “Almost always.”

It’s less of a throat-punch and more a kick to the sternum. 

Grantaire releases a shaky breath as he spins, turning off the stove with numb fingers. The silence that replaces the shrill whistle of the kettle feels somehow louder. He can’t bring himself to break it as he brews the tea on autopilot, his mind a million miles away (or more, a mere six metres, where not half an hour ago he had been pinning Enjolras to a mattress with no idea the man would fall to pieces the moment he walked out).

Outside of their bi-weekly trysts, Grantaire does his best not to think about their situation. He has a penchant for painstaking over-analysis, and knows that close scrutinisation of what they do would be akin to staring into the sun; overwhelming to the point of pain.

But now it appears the universe is intervening because Grantaire is _stuck_ here, being forced to confront what he’s been ignoring for so many weeks.

_I can’t talk to you._ The words ring in his ears. The kitchen is silent save for the tap of a teaspoon against ceramic, and the small voice in the back of Grantaire’s head saying “this isn’t healthy.” 

“Thanks,” Enjolras murmurs as Grantaire sets a steaming mug in front of him. His hand snakes out from the depths of the duvet to reach for his drink; Grantaire spots the reddened skin of Enjolras’s wrist, and something clicks into place.

“Holy shit,” he blurts, clunking his mug on the counter.

Enjolras stares blankly at him.

“I’m an asshole.”

“What? No.” The blond’s head shakes, brows furrowing. “I’m not upset at _you,_ I’m just… upset. It happens. You didn’t do anythin-“

_“Exactly!”_ Grantaire cuts in, mind racing. “Did this happen at the start? Did you cry after the Halloween party?” 

Squinting, Enjolras only hesitates a moment before answering. “No.”

“Right,” Grantaire nods. It’s in line with his hunch. “What about Joly’s birthday?” 

“I...no?” The man winces as he sits up straighter. 

“Do you remember the first time it happened?”

A flush creeps up Enjolras’s neck as he looks down and nods. Grantaire would put money on it being-

“The engagement party.” 

_Jackpot._

“Ok,” Grantaire breathes with at least triple the amount of nodding necessary. “I think I might have an idea of what’s going on.” 

He had only managed to down two champagnes before being all but dragged from the salon of the Pontmercy family estate to a more secluded setting.

Enjolras had been all hands, pulling and pushing until they’d made it to his designated suite, where clumsy fingers had struggled in their hasty attack on Grantaire’s shirt buttons. Grantaire had batted the blond’s hands away to take care of the offending garment only to be met with an impatient huff and renewed vigour. Had it not been a borrowed shirt Grantaire would happily have allowed it to be ripped from his body, but in the interest of maintaining Feuilly’s friendship, he’d instead grasped the man’s wrists, holding tight to stop the barrage.

That image - Enjolras going glassy-eyed as he dropped to his knees, lit only by the faint glow of party lights filtering in through the window - has been burnt into Grantaire’s brain ever since. 

His head is spinning as he blinks back into the present; mouth dry, but tea too hot to help him. Crossing his arms and leaning over the bench, Grantaire finally gives voice to his hypothesis. “Have you ever heard of ‘sub drop’?”

Enjolras’s eyebrows pull together as he frowns, a litany of emotions flitting over his face before his eyes widen and he jolts back.

“I don’t-“ his voice is higher than it had been. “That’s not- we- I’m not…_subbing_ for you.”

“Not in an extreme sense, no,” Grantaire concedes, “but you have to agree that we’ve gotten… rougher.”

Grantaire realizes with a start that they're _talking about this._ His mouth clamps shut before he can blurt out that his go-to tactic for delaying his departure is the textbook definition of ‘edging.’ His face feels warm enough already. 

“It’s not like you tie me up and gag me,” the blond mutters, ears a bright pink and blanket pulled impossibly tight around his shoulders.

The image those words conjure is quickly banished, though his expression must give something away because Enjolras hurries to add, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I’m not kinkshaming, I just- it’s not- we don’t do that.”

“Enj.” Grantaire can’t help the soft tone his voice adopts in the face of the blond’s flustered outburst. “There’s no rule saying you’ve gotta use whips and chains to need aftercare.”

The statement is met with Enjolras’s best impersonation of a carp, mouth opening and closing in a silent, wide-eyed stare. Grantaire _knows_ this conversation isn’t finished, but the thought of discussing the basics of BDSM with _Enjolras_ (who appears adamantly against associating himself with the term altogether) makes him want to hide in the mugless cupboard above the sink.

The blond’s eyes drop to the benchtop, face pinched in a way that suggests he too is finding this continued quiet to be a special brand of Hell. It’s almost funny, really, how the silence they had clung to for so many weeks, upon renewal, had soured so quickly.

Casting his gaze around the room in a desperate attempt to find something - anything - with which to break the silence, Grantaire finds himself drawn to the second drawer. Having never been a strong advocate for impulse control, he opens it.

The contents are sparse: two wooden spoons, a metal ladle, a can opener, a selection of takeaway chopsticks, and - ah.

“This,” Grantaire announces, pulling the utensil from the drawer as Enjolras’s bleary stare snaps to him, “is the Talking Whisk.”

Blue-grey eyes track him as he moves around the bench, sitting on the stool two over from Enjolras. Grantaire grins despite his jittering pulse and tosses the whisk to the bewildered blond.

There’s a flash of pale chest as Enjolras’s blanketed arms flail, fumbling but managing to catch the utensil. The glare is worth it. 

The silence returns, Enjolras frowning at Grantaire and Grantaire looking pointedly at the whisk.

With a loud sigh Grantaire leans closer, stage whispering, “This is the part where _you_ get to talk.”

The blond sets the whisk on the bench space between them with a huff. “You understand why it’s hard for me to talk to you about this stuff, right?” 

A now-familiar trill of hurt scurries along Grantaire’s spine. He does his best not to scoff. “Because it would involve actually talking?”

Enjolras blinks and apparently forgets that he’s avoiding direct eye-contact for this conversation. “I never said we couldn’t talk?”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to look away, shifting his gaze to his cooling mug. “You never _said_ anything.”

He’s electing to ignore the one exception - a choked _‘fuck!’_ that slipped out the first time he had pulled Enjolras’s hair.

A twist of the blond’s brow makes Grantaire wonder if they’re recalling the same event.

“What does…” Enjolras adjusts his grip on the blanket, pulling it high enough to almost muffle his words. “Can I have some examples of what ‘aftercare’ might involve?”

“Uhh…” It’s difficult not to wilt under the weight of the question. “Like, talking. Obviously.”

Enjolras’s wince - though light - is not missed.

“But also like. Snacks? Something to drink? Maybe help with cleanup?” Grantaire commends himself on his mature and responsible answer, despite feeling a smirk tugging at his lip. “I could call you a good boy, if you-” 

Whisk: snatched. He is met with a pink-cheeked scowl as Enjolras places the utensil beyond Grantaire’s reach. “I’m not a dog.”

Taking a sip of his tea, Grantaire steels himself. “It’s a praise thing.” He can be serious for this, he can. “Like, confirmation that the stuff you just did was enjoyed by the other party.”

Silence rings for a beat as Enjolras squints into the depths of his own mug. “I don’t think I... need that?”

Grantaire takes a steadying breath. “I might.”

Enjolras’s head jerks up, eyes wide as he spins his entire body to face Grantaire. “Do you- I mean, is aftercare a thing for…not-subs?”

“Doms?” 

It earns him closed eyes and an impressive set of flared nostrils. “Don’t call it that.”

“Don’t call me ‘it.’” As he smirks and leans forward to reclaim the whisk Grantaire hears the blond’s breath catch. ”But yeah. _Top_ Drop is a thing.”

Blinking several times, a furrow deepens between Enjolras’s brows before he speaks. “So you want me to call you a ‘good boy’?”

“No- look,” Grantaire’s teeth grind against the tangible need to derail this conversation. “We’ve never talked about this stuff, which means we’ve never clarified like, limits. Right?”

Enjolras nods slowly, eyes drifting toward Grantaire’s tightly-clutched mug. “I don’t think I have any limits?”

“You do,” Grantaire assures. Enjolras’s declaration brings with it the impulse to wrap the man in tinfoil to keep him safe from the dark corners of the internet. “You’ve just been really lucky not to have encountered anything to make you realize this.” He takes a steadying breath, pushing on. “I assume you’ve enjoyed...most of the stuff. It’d just be nice to know for sure sometimes.”

“I enjoy it,” Enjolras blurts, and really, would it kill him to be an ounce less sincere? The absolute _madman._

Grantaire scrambles to gather some sense of coherence after having his brain turned to mush at the impromptu declaration. Clarity doesn’t come fast enough.

“Did you mean specifics?” A growing stain sits high and bright on Enjolras’s sharp cheekbones, but it doesn’t stop him. “I liked when you picked me up tonight. To um, fuck me against the wall? That was… new. I liked that.” 

Grantaire manages a tight nod, and ok, maybe he was wrong. Maybe hearing Enjolras put to words exactly what they’ve been doing was a _massive_ mistake.

The blond’s gaze drops to duvet-covered knees “And, uh, when you- with your hands-” His eyes dart briefly to the hands in question still gripping at the mug of tepid tea. “I- Yes. I very much enjoyed that.”

“Oh, um. Good. Noted.” If Grantaire sounds as breathless as he feels, Enjolras doesn’t comment on it.

With a sharp nod the blond turns back to the bench, reaching for his tea and apparently content to end that particular discussion there. 

It’s not a conversation Grantaire had ever envisioned them having, and now that he’s on the other side of it, it’s dawning on him just how backwards their situation is.

They’ve been fucking for almost three months, and it takes a blizzard for them to talk about it? In what world is that healthy? He can feel himself getting angry - a little at Enjolras and a lot at himself. He hates how eager he is to break his back for the man, hates that Enjolras is oblivious to the power he holds over Grantaire. 

Hates that his heart still clings to the hope they can salvage something from this trainwreck.

With a sigh, Grantaire stops fighting the impulse to glance at the blond. 

Enjolras looks contemplative; there’s a slight furrow to his brow but his mouth is soft, a drop of tea clutching desperately to his upper lip.

Grantaire yearns.

“This is nice,” Enjolras comments, interrupting Grantaire’s careening thoughts.

Casting a glance around the room, Grantaire looks back at the man with a raised brow. “‘This’ referring to the agonising silence, I presume?”

“No.” The accompanying pout is entirely too much to process on top of the already off-kilter night. “The tea. I feel… better. Than I did.”

Despite his shitty mood, Grantaire finds himself biting back a grin. He’s distracted just enough for his brain-to-mouth filter to hiccup. “Hugging is also popular.”

The blond’s eyes snap to Grantaire, who plows on.

“I don’t know if that would, um-” Oh, _now_ he hesitates. “-work. For us. Given, um.” Life, the universe, everything else. “Us?”

Enjolras’s face has no right to fall the way it does.

“Come on, Apollo.” Grantaire splays his fingers across the benchtop to hide their slight tremor. “You can’t even look at me after we- ...after.”

In his periphery Enjolras’s mouth makes several silent shapes before he finally speaks. “I can’t watch you leave.” It is the most baffling selection of words the man could have strung together. “I wouldn’t mind if you stayed.” 

Grantaire stands corrected.

Defaulting to deflection, he goes for the low-hanging fruit. “You literally burst into tears tonight when I asked if I could st-”

“I was _already crying_ you jackass.” Enjolras’s head sinks a little deeper into his comforter, vaguely turtle-like. “I thought we’d established it had nothing to do with you staying.”

Grantaire has several retorts at the ready, but a glance at the earnestness on Enjolras’s face gives him pause. He swallows his snark. “You’ve thought about it?” His brain stumbles over the words. “Me staying?” 

The blond shrugs almost imperceptibly under the duvet. “I worry about you being on the bus this late.”

The words nearly knock the wind out of him. It’s dumb, because Enjolras worries about every human being on the face of the planet - Grantaire just happens to be the one who currently has a dried patch of the man’s cum pulling at the hair above his navel - but still, to have that worry acknowledged? Verbally? It’s unexpected, to say the least.

He’s been quiet too long, evidenced by the way Enjolras keeps glancing back and forth between Grantaire and the whisk. 

“A sleepover.” Setting the whisk back down on the bench, Grantaire spins on his stool to indicate the sparsely furnished room. “How would that even- where would I _sleep?”_

“I have your dental record mapped across half my body, and you don’t think we could share the bed?”

“You can’t just-” Grantaire huffs, desperately grasping for something to make the man see reason. “What if someone showed up? Or called? What if Combeferre called right now and asked what you were doing? What would you say?”

Enjolras blinks, mouth open but silent - the picture of perplection. Of course he’s never thought through the actual logistics of what he’s suggesting, the short-sighted idealist. 

Faintly smug at having the upper hand, Grantaire moves the whisk to the blond’s side of the bench.

“He wouldn’t,” Enjolras mumbles, face morphing into a curious expression. After another short carp impersonation he seems to settle for closing his mouth and pushing the whisk back to Grantaire.

“Yeah, it’s midnight, I know.” Grantaire rolls the whisk back. It definitely ranks in the top three most bizarre games of hot potato he’s ever played. “Humour me.” 

“He wouldn’t have to,” Enjolras insists, shrinking into his comforter. “He already knows what I’m... doing.”

Grantaire can hardly hear himself through the pounding in his ears. “...what?” 

Guilt. That’s the curious expression. Enjolras pulls his blanket tighter. “I needed to talk to someone.”

And oh, if that isn’t a slap in the face from Monsieur I-Can’t-Talk-To-You.

Only a moment is spared to process the sting before his brain shifts into panic. Combeferre _knows._ He had spoken to the man mere hours ago, and he _knows._ Did he watch them leave, Grantaire slinking out the door a whole thirty fucking seconds after Enjolras had?

What had Enjolras told him? Had they just talked about the sex, or did he know about the crying? Did Enjolras elaborate on the intensity of their intimacy? (Could what they do even be called intimacy?) Does Combeferre think-

“I meant what I said before,” bursts Enjolras’s voice through the suffocating cloud of Grantaire’s panic. “In the- in the bathroom. I can’t talk to you.” The blond’s face is imploring, a hand half-raised and frozen before dropping back to clutch at the blanket pooled atop his thighs. “Not without mangling my intentions and making everything worse. I don’t want to ruin this.”

Still reeling from the revelation, Grantaire can’t muffle the snort of derision the statement evokes. “Ruin _what?”_

Enjolras huffs in apparent indignation. “This. _Us.”_

He says it so earnestly, as though two people have ever been less of an ‘us’ than them.

_“‘Us’?_ Really?”

A flash of hurt crosses Enjolras’s features; it does nothing but stoke the flames.

“Scared you’ll ruin...which bit? The part where we’re not speaking the moment we’ve left the Musain? Or when we keep all the lights out so you don’t have to look at-“ 

“No,” the blond murmurs, voice small.

“No? How about when I’m leaving half-dressed the minute I’ve caught my breath? Or when our friends spend half a meeting trying to set you up-”

“- stop it-”

“-with some hotshot campaign manager-”

“-stop.”

At some point in the exchange the two had turned to face one another, Grantaire biting back the rest of his rant as they stare each other down. The kitchen is silent but for the sound of heavy breathing as the moment stretches.

Enjolras’s lip quivers, tears springing to his eyes as he drops his gaze. _“See?”_

The crack in his voice hits Grantaire like a slap in the face, and he realises he’s being a monumental ass. Enjolras is probably sore, possibly tired, and definitely still grappling with sub drop. The man could stand to be handled with an ounce of care.

“What do you need, Enj?” Grantaire asks, hearing the blond’s breath hitch.

“I don’t know,” comes the choked reply.

“I’m trying to help.” He wishes, not for the first time, that the man came with a manual: Grantaire is utterly and completely lost. “Just tell me what you need from me.”

“I can’t- I just-” Enjolras turns to face him, tone bordering on pleading. “Can- can you just- tell me what to do?”

The request scatters Grantaire’s brain for a moment. “How-? Enj, how would I-”

“You always know.” Enjolras closes his eyes against the admission, a tear racing down his cheek. “This whole time you’ve known what I wanted more than I ever have.”

Grantaire blinks, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

Furiously fuschia, Enjolras lifts his gaze to the low ceiling above them with a shaky exhale. “I didn’t know I wanted to be pinned down and pushed around until you did it. I didn’t know I liked being bitten and- and _bruised._ I didn’t know I wanted my hair pulled, or my face fucked or the- the-” Enjolras’s flailing hand stops to press briefly against his own throat, swallowing thickly and lowering his eyes to his knees. “I didn’t even know I wanted _you_ until Hallow-” 

“Do you?” The question is out before Grantaire has registered thinking it. “Want me?”

Enjolras’s head shoots up, expression the picture of affront. “Of course I-”

“Or do you just want to keep fucking?” Grantaire has to turn away from the look the blond gives him, too open and unsure. “Because there’s a difference. And I can’t answer that for you.”

A long and painful pause hangs between them. “I don’t think…”

Grantaire braces for impact.

“Can I have time to think about it? Right now I’m not...”

It’s not the blow Grantaire expects, and he suddenly feels wrong-footed. He hesitantly glances up to catch blue-grey eyes staring at him imploringly. “Of course,” he manages, though his tone sounds uncertain. Enjolras can be harsh, sure, but he isn’t needlessly cruel. He wouldn’t drag this out just for fun, right? “Take as long as you need.”

Enjolras nods. “And you?”

“I, um.” Grantaire had been privately hoping that Enjolras would forget to be his usual selfless self for a hot minute. Head spinning as he thinks back over the night’s conversation, he swallows hard. Prior to tonight he knows he would have agreed to any scrap of attention the man would have been willing to throw his way, but now? “I don’t think I can keep doing this the way we have been.”

Blond eyebrows disappear under mussed curls, though the rest of Enjolras remains frozen. “You want to stop?”

Grantaire’s head shakes automatically before he realises that this is exactly what he’s asking for. He tacks on a desperately vague shrug as he awaits the inevitable consequences.

The seconds stretch on for a brief eternity before the blond speaks again, carefully. ”You want...more?”

Admitting his infatuation to Enjolras has been Grantaire’s recurring nightmare for the better part of the past two years, though now that the moment has arrived it just feels surreal. His imagination has never conjured an Enjolras as patient and soft-spoken as the one watching him now, and so he has never considered what might come after this point. 

His voice can’t be trusted not to snag in his throat; in place of speaking he gives another helpless shrug.

“Oh.” Enjolras’s expression is difficult to read, brows furrowed but mouth soft. Grantaire is prepared to brave the blizzard if need be. The longer the silence stretches; the more appealing the prospect seems. “That’s...unexpected.”

“Really?” His voice does indeed snag.

It earns him a deflective shoulder-lift. “You didn’t seem the relationship-type. You’ve never dated in all the time I’ve known you.”

It takes about eight seconds for Grantaire’s flat stare to make its point.

_“Oh.”_ With a blush that would be cute under literally any other circumstance, Enjolras presses his face to the blanket bunched on his shoulder. “Okay. That's. Well.”

“Yeah.”

A silence settles between them, though it’s far from the stilted and sharp ones Grantaire has grown accustomed to in this apartment. He’s pleasantly surprised by the lack of gut-wrenching shame he feels. If anything, the tension from his shoulders has all but vanished. His ribs feel less tight, his stomach has stopped roiling, and the ache in his thighs - though present - is unrelated. 

Glancing over, Grantaire finds Enjolras looking at him with a quirked brow. The blond opens his mouth, but instead of words a yawn extends.

“I’m _really_ tired,” the man admits, rising to his feet. “Come to bed?” 

Grantaire blinks, because only Enjolras would turn around after the discussion they’ve had and say something so naively suggestive. “Really?”

Closing his eyes for a beat, the blond gives an exaggerated sigh. “Sleep.” He steps closer to Grantaire, nudging his knee through the comforter. “Please?”

It’s a dangerous request, one that the night’s talk has made no less appealing. On the one hand, tonight has been rough. For better or for worse they’ve made some actual progress: he doesn’t want to risk it all on his poor impulse control.

On the other hand: Grantaire is a weak, weak man.

He follows the blond back down the hallway and into the bedroom. Enjolras emerges from his blanket cocoon still clutching the whisk. Grantaire reaches for it but is met with hesitation.

“You’re not gonna sneak out again, are you?”

A small flurry of guilt sweeps through Grantaire’s chest as he thinks back on their first night (and subsequent almost-first morning). “No.”

“Good.” Enjolras’s expression softens as he relinquishes his grip. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Fumbling the whisk, Grantaire shoots a perplexed look at the blond. That sounds entirely too hopeful for his heart to bear. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Think we can manage without this bad boy?” he teases, waving the utensil.

Wetting his lips, Enjolras offers a small smirk. “It’s a whisk I’m willing to take.”

An unexpected bark of laughter is met with Enjolras’s dopey grin, and Grantaire knows he is doomed. Hopelessly and gloriously doomed.

Taking the comforter from the sleepy blond, Grantaire flicks it over the bed. Enjolras crawls in from the far side and looks expectantly between Grantaire and the bedspace between them.

Grantaire tiredly accepts his fate, shucking his jacket and kicking off his boots. He pauses a moment at the fly of his jeans before realising that Enjolras has spent more time with him naked than not lately, and the hesitation only serves to make things more awkward. Stripping to his boxes, Grantaire switches off the light before climbing into bed. It smells overwhelmingly like Enjolras and faintly of sex, and yeah, maybe volunteering to change the sheets would have been a good idea.

Bidding each other goodnight, the two proceed to lay stiff as boards. Grantaire is exhausted but also so very aware of every minute movement made by the blond. He’s not sure it’s possible to hear the sound of blinking, and yet... 

It could be hours or minutes until Grantaire begins to doze, jolting with a start at a hesitant movement against his hand.

“Are you awake?” whispers Enjolras.

“Mm?”

He hears a slow breath in and out before, “Can we try hugging?”

It’s the last thing Grantaire’s hazy brain expects. His eyes struggle to make out the shape of the blond in the dim streetlamps filtering in from the window. “Now?”

Enjolras nods, pale curls barely visible in the dark.

With a muted yawn, Grantaire returns the nod and shifts his arm to make space. “Sure.”

Shuffling closer, Enjolras’s hand moves to rest over a stuttering heartbeat and his curls tickle at Grantaire’s chin where his shoulder has been repurposed as a pillow.

The arm under Enjolras curls around his back, and Grantaire feels his entire universe shrink down to the places that the blond is pressed up against him.

“Is this ok?” the blond asks, breath hot across Grantaire’s chest.

In the big picture? No. A promised conversation in the morning doesn’t guarantee a magical outcome, and he knows that there’s a lot of ground to cover before they could be considered to be in a remotely healthy place. Having this, and potentially having to walk away from it? It probably won't kill him, but it’s going to suck more than anything he’s had to endure.

But in the here and now? “This is nice.”

Enjolras’s grip tightens with a hum. As the hold on his chest loosens and soft snores start to sound from his shoulder, he can’t help but smile at the ceiling. 

_This is nice._

**Author's Note:**

> **Me:** I'm gonna write a no dialogue fic, that'll be a fun little challenge!  
**Me one scene later when I realised I couldn't leave these two to suffer in silence:** Oh no Oh God Oh why What the hell
> 
> The working title for this was _‘Enjolras Cries After Sex Pass It On’_ so make of that what you will.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com) where I sometimes draw stuff from my fics!


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